


Of Mabari and Fairy Tales

by fusrodie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Chance Meetings, F/M, Fluff, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusrodie/pseuds/fusrodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two runaway Mabari, the docks of Val Royeaux, a meeting neither of them would soon forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Val Royeaux

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some Trespasser DLC spoilers!

Her relationship with Orlais is a complicated one. She remembers the first time her adventures took her away from Ferelden, away from the land of  _dog lords_ , the place she had called home for most of her life. It felt very much like leaving the Circle when the Blight began, after Ostagar, after the dust had settled. She remembers stopping dead in her tracks out of the blue, feet firmly planted on the ground while Morrigan and Alistair trekked on. She remembers watching, mesmerized, because there were so many  _colors_ , earth and grass beneath her feet, tree barks scratching the pads of her fingers, leaves bigger than her hand or small enough she could cradle them in her palm.

Orlais was different, special in its own way; just like its people strived to be the center of attention, exuberant fashion and even more flamboyant attitude, it seemed like nature wanted to follow suit. Lavender fields that went on as far as the eye could see, trees that seemed to catch fire when the sun set. Its cities were bright, none more than its capital, gold and red, smelling like hubris and too-sweet perfumes. She would not like it as much if not for Leliana, she supposes, whose tales of Val Royeaux always sprang to mind when business took her there. Walking down the crowded streets, being greeted by strangers and shunned by others made her feel like the lady she once dreamt of being as a youth, when tales of princes and forbidden romances filled her thoughts. In her fantasies, she was a young maiden clad in the finest silk, sipping the finest wine, savoring delicious tiny cakes bought on the most popular bakeries of Val Royeaux. She dreamed of a man, hair slicked back, taut muscles, sword glistening in the sunlight. He would take her hand and kiss it, and though she would not feel it through the laced gloves, it would send shivers down her spine. They would meet in secret, exchange fiery kisses, until the day he would ask for her hand in marriage, duel any other suitors - and win. They would settle down in some beautifully decorated chateau, have servants bring them their meals, she would adopt the perfect pet and become Orlais’ next trendsetter, while he would become a prominent citizen, a rich businessman, perhaps an important figure in the military. They would have one child or none at all - birthing would not do her figure any good, and a refined lady could not stand to have her skin plagued by stretch marks or scars. The child would be named after their father, and so would her grandchildren, until their legacy was secured.

The memory has her laughing behind her gloved hand, shoulders shaking as she tries to keep quiet. Such thoughts are akin to idiocies to her these days, the maiden long gone, replaced by a woman whose feet never left the ground. She knew much more of the world, its dangers, the scheming of its people, and how those like her, who had not chosen to be but were born mages, were looked down upon, treated with disdain and, in places like Orlais, sometimes a novelty, the finest entertainment. She could not remember the last time she had worn a dress, much less one made of silk. It was leather and metal she was accustomed to, boots that reached her knees, padded to protect her shins. She took her meals at the nearest tavern and drank hard liquor straight out of the bottle, and it was never the good kind. Sometimes it felt like she had more scars than skin, and after every battle she would find another. She was the one whose muscles had hardened, hands calloused, hair burnt by the sun. The prince had come, but he was the one blushing, fumbling, stuttering when he spoke. Her home was a fortress she hardly ever visited, her room always a mess, taken over by books and scrolls she never bothered to put away. Perhaps more importantly, she hadn’t adopted one of Orlais’ fancy hairless cats, the ones that cost a fortune and reportedly made a habit out of disobeying their owners and acting exactly like you would expect one come from the Empire.

She had found her companion in Ferelden over a decade ago, and the two had not separated ever since. It was a pup at the time, addicted to belly rubs and scratching behind its ears, playful, sometimes _sassy_ , fiercely loyal and protective of its master. _As Fereldan as one can be_ , Morrigan had commented, mostly to mock Alistair (it never failed to amuse her how true that was). Barkspawn had aged alongside her, grown alongside her, earned its fair share of scars just like she had. The hound now reached her elbows and weighed more than she could carry; a benefit on cold nights, when it would snuggle closer to her to keep her warm, but nothing short of trouble when they had to go through water or mud, and it would refuse to cross. The worst part was knowing that, on such occasions, the mabari did it to annoy her.

Loyal, happy Barkspawn, whose favorite pastime was bothering Orlesians and chewing on expensive treats. Loyal, happy Barkspawn, that had disappeared in the middle of Val Royeaux and hadn’t come back. Not a soul had seen it, no ma’am, and it boggled the mind how a mabari that size could walk amongst the people unseen. She was seconds away from asking the guards for help when a bark rumbled, coming from a nearby alley. The way to the docks, or so the carved wood informed her, Barkspawn sprinting down two sets of stairs and making a turn to the right when she had just finished reading. She walked as fast as her legs could carry her, slowing down when a particularly disapproving look was shot her way. The masked man hummed in disgust, said something about _barbarian dog lords_ before tucking what seemed to be a piece of bread under his arm and walking away.

“Barkspawn!” she called out. If it were possible, the dog would be laughing at her pathetic attempt at running after it without losing what little elegance she possessed. “Oh, fuck Orlesians,” she spat, louder than she had hoped, and more than one surprised, offended gasp had been let out. _Fuck Orlesians_ , she repeated to reassure herself as she gained speed. She was no lady, no princess, and if this was some sort of game, there was not a chance she would lose to the damned hound.

She could see the water now, just beyond a white stone fence, decorated with gold like everything else. There was no way to go but to the left, where the path narrowed, enough space for a fat mabari to run through and its master to chase after it. She followed blindly when the dog refused to stop, right foot and hand pushing against the railing to help keep her fast and stable, her concentration broken when _another_ mabari rushed past her, barking in excitement. Something solid collided against her shoulder just then, knocking her off balance, hip bumping against the stone, the railing the only thing between her and an unwelcome dip in the docks of Val Royeaux. That same something, someone, had grabbed her arm before she could go over, pulling her flush against them, a curse whispered in a low tone.

“Maker’s breath!”

Leliana had always told her Orlais was the birth place of all fairy tales: where princesses met their dashing rogues, where princes fell in love with blushing maidens, where happy endings where forged and dreams came true. Such conversations they had late at night, after all others had gone to sleep but they sat by the campfire, the bard telling stories while braiding the Warden’s hair. She was glad for the distraction at the time, words forgotten the day after, but now they echoed in her mind. The clothes were the first thing she noticed, black fabric and shiny brocade, a golden sash laid across their chest and around their waist. Broad shoulders, strong arms, gloved fingers that held her in a firm yet gentle manner. He smells sweet, but not overly so, woody, floral, a familiar scent she cannot pin down, the name on the tip of her tongue. She takes her time watching him before raising her head to meet his eyes, dark stubble on his neck and jaw, a charming scar beginning on his upper lip and disappearing before reaching his cheekbone. His eyes are a light shade of brown, honest, familiar eyes, and his hair blond, messily pulled back, soft waves instead of the curls she dreamed of.

She can hear her heart pounding, feels her stomach turning, but tells herself she was startled, came close to falling into deep waters, and that was the reason for her nervousness. Not even as a child did she believe in fairy tales, but there was no denying the man looked like the warrior she’d wished for. He was the one who would sweep her off her feet and carry her to a life of riches and adventure, a nameless hero in her teenage stories. Only he was there, he was _real_ , warm and so close she could not help but watch his lips when he parted them to draw breath. He had a name, one she had not spoken in many years, one she used to repeat time and again because she loved to hear it, one she had timidly whispered to herself on lonely nights in the Tower, one she never thought would figure in her life again.

“Cullen.” For a moment, she wondered if he would kiss her, like all knights do when they find their beloved again. For a moment, she _hoped_ he would. He made no move to let her go, but had not brought her any closer, frozen in place, expression unreadable. “It’s-,” she never manages to finish the sentence, lost in his eyes. Something blooms in her chest, a warmth she had not felt in years, a blush tinting her cheeks as she smiles, shy but sincere. He returns the gesture, and his smile is just as she remembers it: boyish, sweet, perhaps a bit more... Alluring. She cannot remember him being this handsome, this _confident_. The slender boy she fell for had grown into a strapping man, and it seemed like the wisest choice to ignore the thought that she could just as easily fall for him again.

He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, chuckles. Opens his mouth but says nothing, like there is too much to say but not enough words to express it. She knows it, because she feels the same; how much time did they have? Would they ever see one another again? Should she tell him she was glad to see him? There is nothing she can say to make him understand, even if she were always a person of words instead of actions. Cullen on the other hand, always knew what to do, and this time was no different. He wraps his arms around her, locks her in a tight embrace. They had never been this close back in the Tower, glances but no touches, and it felt _right_ , their meeting and this moment years in the making. Her hands feel the expanse of his back, cheek pressing against his chest and she recognizes it now – elderflowers, he smells like elderflowers and a dash of something else, something unique, that had lingered on her memories all these years, stored away where she could not find it. She does not think it will be possible to forget it, to forget _him_.

Cullen calls her name, her breath catching in her throat when she peeks at him and sees how peaceful he looks, so handsome in the sunlight. “Would you,” he begins, his voice low but bold, and she thinks it suits him well. She moves away just enough to look him in the eye, just enough to notice his resolve falter and the sketch of a smile on his lips, as if the sight of her had made him forget how to string words together.

“Commander Cullen!” the yell comes from somewhere behind them, a thick Antivan accent in the woman’s voice. “Ah, there you are. We noticed you had run off after Pup and-” she looks at Cullen, at her, at the two mabaris playing together, and back at the two of them. There is a redness on her face but her smile says she is fascinated, unable to move away. Her first reaction is to separate herself from him, gaze diverted to somewhere that is not his face, his captivating eyes; prepare an explanation, introduce herself, apologize, scold Barkspawn.

But Cullen never lets her go.

“Perhaps the lady would like to join us for some tea?” the Antivan woman suggests, and Cullen patiently waits for an answer.

“I- I would love to,” the words that leave her mouth are barely audible. His smile widens as he breaks away, offers his arm, and there is no hesitation when she takes it. The two follow after the giggling lady, whose hands are held together against her chest and sighs every so often. She cannot help but touch his arm with her free hand, and is grateful when he does nothing to peel her off him. The two hounds walk beside them, oblivious to the whole ordeal, too busy playing with a red handkerchief to care about the mumblings of their foolish masters.

(She notes, but pretends not to, a blond dwarf grinning next to the Antivan, reaching into his pocket for paper and a piece of charcoal, scribbling incessantly as he moved away.)


	2. Fereldan Roads, part one

Orlais may be beautiful, but Ferelden will always be home. Her place of birth matters little at this point, memories of a past that no longer seemed to belong to her. Kinloch was her home, cold stone and warm beds, fellow apprentices to keep her company, pillow fights when the Templars were not watching. She remembers the first nights, curled into a ball, weeping because none of it made sense, a small hand caressing her shoulder to bring her some manner of comfort. No one came to tuck her into bed, though one of the recruits was kind enough to check under it for monsters.

Jowan was around the same age, her first friend amidst so many strange faces. The years had passed and he had not changed at all, slick black hair and dark brown eyes, always a head taller than her, always so thin despite the amount of food he ate. They shared stories, blankets, candy, and later on notes, tomes, secrets. He came to her when the lessons seemed impossible to understand, when he had his first kiss with an apprentice he’d been eyeing for months, when she was taken in the middle of the night for her Harrowing, when his heart had been filled with his love for Lily. And she had done the same, had told him about her silly crush on a much older, more experienced mage, had cried on his shoulder when she’d discovered a letter from her family was destroyed before it could reach her, had confided in him when a young Templar, around their age, replaced Ser Emery, and she had become completely enamored. It was Jowan who had to suffer through her giggling, who had to remind her smiling in the middle of class would raise suspicion, who had mocked and teased her, never in front of other apprentices, but in front of him _._

She had left it all behind, walking away from Kinloch and in Duncan’s footsteps, a new life, free, bound, a promise broken before she could savor what looked to her like a grand victory. There was another shoulder for her to cry on then, another hand weaving through her hair when she could not stop the tears. Alistair was all she had and once again it seemed life had started anew, but there were no towers or crowded camps. Nothing but dirt and trees for miles, gravel cracking beneath her boots, blisters on her feet and red streaks across her skin where the sun had burnt it. For over ten years the roads of Ferelden had kept her safe, had taken her on adventures, had led her to people she would come to call friends. She’d had the opportunity to settle down, four walls around her, woven rug and burning hearth, but with it came responsibility, routine, meetings.

A throne wouldn’t do when there was so much of the world to see, when the sun rose and colored the sky every day, when the wind blew and sent shivers down her spine, when snow would paint the earth white. She had spent far too long locked away, and this is where she felt at home, trekking down beaten paths, no company other than her faithful Mabari.

Loyal, happy Barkspawn, whom she had not yet forgiven, to whom she would be eternally thankful. Her plans had been ruined – a day in Val Royeaux had become two, then three, then an entire week. Tea had become an invitation for dinner, Wicked Grace and merrymaking, and before long she had been introduced to the world’s newest hero, the Herald of Andraste, the only hope for Thedas. Their companions were an even stranger bunch than her own back in the day; a Seeker of Truth who oozed righteousness, stern, beautiful, chiseled face, sword on her hip, swooning over badly written romance novels. The author of said romance novels, the blond dwarf she had seen before, whom she later discovered was friends with the Champion of Kirkwall, and who had named his crossbow _Bianca,_ though the reason why was the one story he was not willing to tell. A Warden who had been excited to meet her, blurting out his rank and name like he had rehearsed it a thousand times over. A one-eyed Qunari, former Ben-Hassrath, obsessed with dragons, who had paid for half of her drinks as a way to bribe her into telling more stories. A Tevinter necromancer with whom she could not talk until the morning after, when he was sober enough to say something other than flattering commentary about himself. Then there was a Circle mage, a woman of such elegance one could not help but admire. She gracefully made her way out of the loud tavern after the proper introductions were made, pleasantries were exchanged later on, and the Warden mustered the courage to commend her fashion sense (her heart was filled with joy when said woman remarked how the Warden armor complimented her figure). An elven woman called Sera, who spoke in the thickest accent she had ever heard and carried a bow and a quiver full of arrows, though they were not in any danger and inside an Orlesian inn. And then there was Cole, a boy who seemed to hide behind his blond hair and under the giant black hat he wore. He had spent the whole night sitting outside, petting Barkspawn, and though she was too far away to hear it, the Mabari was clearly enjoying whatever thoughtful conversation he had initiated. Cullen’s dog had joined them at some point, bored, or perhaps embarrassed at his master’s poor  display of skill at cards.

Cullen had refused to participate at first, claiming the last time he had tried had been a bad experience, but refusing to elaborate. The Warden-Commander had always considered herself good at Wicked Grace, having played with the likes of Isabela, Leliana and Zevran, and could not foresee her utter defeat at the hands of the Antivan woman, Josephine. The ambassador was a sweet young thing, at first glance, graceful giggling and delicate hands, a sweet young thing who had destroyed her adversaries and taken most of her savings. She blamed the strange drink Bull had offered her; her inhibitions and good senses had disappeared alongside the burning in her throat. Her coat was discarded after the first game was over, and she had won it back on the second, but the drinking, the singing and the hearth fire made her feel hot, and suddenly her modesty looked like a mild concern. She is not sure when it happened, busy as she was trying to read the other player’s expressions, but the Commander had taken a seat just opposite her at some point, a mug in his hand and fire in his eyes. She never would have guessed Cullen had become so daring, so open, and it hit her that the two had never had the opportunity to truly know one another, back in the Circle. She remembers him as the shy boy who blushed when he saw her and fought against his unruly curls when he believed no one could see, and the man making a show out of stripping his tunic did not fit that description. He lost, time and again, until most of his clothes were gone, a collective sigh shared by some of the people present whenever he rose from his seat to peel off another piece of clothing.

If she had thought he looked good in his finery, he looked even better in his armor: silverite breastplate, pauldrons, vambrace, leather breeches and knee-high boots. His coat, red and golden, fur lined, fluffy and soft to the touch, had rested comfortably around her shoulders the entire night: it had been his first loss, though he hadn’t looked at all fazed by it. He would come to regret it all in the morning, the wicked smiles and lingering touches, the strutting about the tavern in nothing but his boots and breeches. His tone had changed when he came to apologize, blush on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. His head felt heavy, he confessed, but in spite of it all, it had been one of the best nights he’d ever had.

She would have left Val Royeaux then, her business concluded, but Josephine had arranged for a meeting with Leliana - _Divine Victoria -_ , Varric had asked for an interview and stories for his next best-selling book, and Cullen had invited her time and again for tea, dinner, a game of chess, and once a day they would walk the docks and talk, about past, present, future, just the four of them: the commanders standing closer and closer each day until they strolled through Orlesian streets hand in hand, while Barkspawn had found a best friend in Cullen’s mabari, Corwoofeus.

A week was not enough to put the past behind them, not enough to become the friend she wished to be, not enough to sort through her thoughts. For once in her life she had resorted to _feeling_ instead of thinking, trying to make the best out of the time they still had together, knowing that perhaps, once this was over, they would not see one another again. Their meetings had continued until the Inquisition went somewhere she could not follow, their stay at Val Royeaux only a brief stop before they reached Halamshiral. Corypheus, the Breach, the Orlesian civil war, none of it was her business; it was strange to imagine that such a cataclysm did not involve her. She had bid them goodbye, wished them good luck. Cullen held her tight before going away, the promise they would meet once more. Barkspawn and Corwoofeus’ parting had been the saddest part.

Over three months had passed since then; she had left Orlais for good, trading its warmer climate for the Fereldan cold, the pastries for hearty stews, her journey to Denerim a slow one because she wanted it to be. The world was safe, _she_ was safe, after years of pouring over books, chasing after wilds tales, bloodying her hands and worrying over things that did not depend on her. She stops by Redcliffe and stays longer than planned; some of the townsfolk recognize her, the Arl recognizes her. After so long away from people, away from being a hero, she had almost forgotten what it felt like.

She walks the road towards the capital, towards the ruins of Lothering, and the memories are bittersweet. Barkspawn seems to share her mindset, its ears drooping as it whines. The Imperial Highway leads to places she had buried long ago, relics of a past she would never be able to forget. But these are different times – and though the land still suffers, the Blight is long gone. The Inquisition has done good work around these parts, helping the villagers and keeping the roads safe. She hopes it stays that way, even though there is no longer an Inquisition, no longer a mobilized, well trained and well armed paramilitary organization to fill the gaps the wars and destruction the Blight had left in its wake. These are not her problems, she reminds herself, adjusting the bag slung across her back, walking faster, her determination renewed.

It takes her over a minute to realize Barkspawn no longer walks by her side. She reaches for her weapon, grips it firmly as she turns on her heel, and the hound startles her when it barks once, twice, sitting right where the stone meets a dirt path leading deeper into the Hinterlands. There are no villages in that direction; perhaps the ruins of a farm or two, places abandoned long ago, taken over by the wildlife. There is nothing but trees and bears, and the cold of the Frostbacks further along. She stands perfectly still for a moment, fingers flexing as she conjures elemental energy on her palm. The forest is quiet, and she can hear birds chirping, water running somewhere nearby, her heart beating fast even after years on the road.

Her concentration breaks just then, a surprised gasp escaping her lips as she sees it in the distance, running towards her, closer, too close now for her to do anything about it. She turns away and waits for the impact, for the moment her body will hit the ground, but it never comes. Instead she feels a nudge against her palm, fur brushing against her fingertips. The mabari looks up at her, yapping excitedly as it wags its tail, and her first instinct is to scratch behind its ears and smile, tell it what a cute puppy it is. Another second and it registers: this is not Barkspawn. No, Barkspawn still has not moved, wiggling its butt happily, ignoring both his master and the dog, who is now comfortably lying on its back, begging for a belly rub. She cannot see its owner yet, and a knot has formed in the bottom of her stomach with anticipation. A grey mabari, white spots and a mark that ran through its nose – if this is Corwoofeus, then it meant-

“Pup!” she hears him call out, but it is not his mabari who answers. Barkspawn greets him like it would do her, and Cullen’s reaction mirrors her own: his lips contort in a smile, and he visibly comprehends the situation soon after.

Aside from their meeting in Val Royeaux, she had never seen him wearing anything other than armor. In the Circle, Templars walked around the halls in full plate at all times, an infinite parade of silver and red, depictions of flaming swords on shields, bracers, banners. Whenever thoughts of Cullen crossed her mind, she would always picture him in his Templar regalia, try as she might to imagine him wearing simpler clothes – or none at all. In Val Royeaux, he looked much more like a noble than a member of the Order; though the color scheme had remained, black, red, gold, tones that had always suited him well. Something in the back of her mind whispers candle light and nothing on suit him even better. She remembers blushing, sighing, a delicious shiver traveling down her spine when she let her thoughts wander too far, but little else, her memories a blur from all the liquor she had consumed.

The Templar had hurt her, and the Commander was the prince she had given up on years ago; the man she saw now was but a traveler, a warrior no different from any other, and as strange as it sounded, this was the image she wished to keep. This was the man she had been waiting to find, the one under the plate, the one who no longer followed orders, the one who took the time to pet a spoiled mabari in the middle of the Fereldan Hinterlands. Checkered overshirt sewn by hand, a comfortable looking vest and simple breeches, gloves and boots made of rough leather, scarf draped around his neck to protect from the cold and sunlight. His sword is where it has always been, but there is no shield, no clunky pauldrons and shin guards. The bag he carries does not look heavy, dried food and a waterskin for the journey, perhaps his armor, she’d wager.

The distance between them is gone in a second, Mabari forgotten, legs moving seemingly of their own accord. There is a moment of hesitation before fingers find flesh, before arms are wrapped around shoulders affectionately. She holds him tight, ear pressed against his chest, smile widening when she notices his heart beats as fast as hers. She does not know how long they stay like that, locked in an embrace in the middle of a Fereldan road, but it feels right; sometimes she felt her time with Cullen in the Tower was stolen from them, their friendship thwarted, a love that never reached full bloom. But this is not making up for what was lost, no retracing old steps and reopening old wounds. Meeting in Val Royeaux after a decade apart brought closure, yes, but there was no shaking off the feeling they were meeting for the first time. Their new relationship did not resemble the old one, no more rules and constant watching, no more fear and restrictions.

“It... It is good to see you again,” he stutters when they finally let go, blushing just like she remembers, and it brings her joy to see not everything has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd planned to write three chapters, but it's actually going to be four. Fereldan Roads has a part two, that I'm already halfway through writing - and it seemed like a better idea to split it, rather than posting it all together.
> 
> I hope you stick with me to the end! Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first attempts at writing something that doesn’t involve angst - I hope I did at least alright. I have half a mind to write two more chapters with a similar theme, as in, mabaris and no angst. I hope this one isn't too cheesy and is actually... Well, happy enough? I'm open to suggestions.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
